The Mirror
by Ethuil
Summary: No matter how hard she tried, she could never escape that mirror... Another sequel in the tale of Boromir and Ninglor, summary of the previous fics inside. Main topics: coping after sexual abuse, relationship issues; written years ago, posted now.
1. summary of previous stories

This story is a sequel to my fanfictions "Son of Ilúvatar" and "Daughter of Sorrow, Daughter of Hope" and cannot be understood without knowing the content of those two fanfictions. So let me give you a

**summary of „Son of Ilúvatar":**

After his death, Boromir reaches Valinor, the blessed island in the West, eternal home of the elves and resting place for the souls of the dead. There he meets Galathorn, who turns out to be the person known in our world as Jesus. Having glimpsed a vision of him on the cross, and wanting to understand further, Boromir is transported into our world. Here he meets a young woman whom he calls Ninglor. She introduces him to her world and he forms a tentative attachment with her before he is abruptly taken back to Valinor. Having fallen in love with Ninglor, he yearns to return to our earth to help her with her problems, but he has to deal with his own issues first. Having received forgiveness for his mistakes and inner healing, having given his life to Galathorn and dealt with some of his past demons, he is offered the choice to either remain in Valinor, return to our world, or return to Middle Earth alive once more and continue in the fight against Sauron. Out of love for Ninglor he forfeits his beloved Gondor in favour of our world, even though he has no guarantee that he will find Ninglor here or that his love will be accepted by her.

**summary of "Daughter of Sorrow, Daughter of Hope":**

Having returned to our world for Ninglor's sake, Boromir tries in vain to find her. Bitter, desperate and estranged from Galathorn, he finally lights upon her lying in the snow after a suicide attempt, apparently dead. Grief-stricken he lies down by her side after some vain attempts of reviving her, ready to die with her rather than leave her. But Galathorn intervenes and saves her life. As she awakens in Boromir's arms, he vows never to leave her.


	2. To Love and to Cherish

**Part I: ****To love and to cherish**

"_Perhaps, what she hated most about that mirror was its unpredictability. After she had shattered it for the first time, she thought she must surely have got rid of it forever. Yet, to her horror, a few days later it loomed into her sight again. She could never be sure where and when it would catch her. She would round a corner, unsuspectingly, and suddenly there it was, slamming its horrid images into her face. Once, in a courage born of despair, she had overcome her aversion to touch it: she had wrapped it into a blanket and carried it down the stairs into a stone-walled cellar room which she had locked with two different locks. They could not keep it in. The next evening, half-hoping, half-fearing, she had espied it again in the corner of her own room. It was of no use to cover it, either. She had tried that again and again. Whatever you used – blankets, shawls, clothes, even leather cloaks – the images burned through it, turning the cover itself into merciless, transparent glass._

_It appeared of its own volition, and it showed things of its own volition. Sometimes it showed her the present in a way she did not want to see. Sometimes the future in a way she feared it would be. But most of all she hated it when it showed her the past, the things that had happened. If she let it, it would always sooner or later end up showing her herself. She did not know who she was in reality, and people would tell her things different from the mirror, but she knew that she could not bear the way the mirror showed her herself. It was perfectly disgusting, and she simply could not endure it._

_The only way she knew how to deal with this was to smash the mirror. To smash __it with her hands, its shattering, shattered fragments cutting deep into her fists and arms, her own blood covering the merciless glass, blotting out its horrible reflection. She had found out that this worked, at least for a time. It gave her power over the mirror, control. She could cloud it, block it into red oblivion. Even a mirror as horrible, as unpredictable, as invincible as this needed time to rebuild itself, as much time as it took her body to close the wounds into scars…"_

Boromir dropped the sheet of paper, looked up and sighed. Had she intended him to find this story, or whatever it was? Had she wanted him to read it? She had left the house to go shopping, and when he entered her room, to breathe her scent still lingering there and place some flowers from the garden on her desk, these sheets of paper had been lying there, crumpled, like fallen leaves blown to him by the wind. Now he was trying to rake them together, to get to know the tree from which they had been shed.

"_T__he things that had happened." _Though they had never talked about it, he knew what she meant. He had known it ever since he had tried to touch her in places where she didn't want to be touched, foolishly even tried to suggest to her to reciprocate that touch. He had realized it then, from the way she stiffened and the blank look of horror that had entered her eyes: an expression that clanked down a shutter between them, yet at the same time, for a split second before that shutter fell, let him glimpse into an abyss of pain. That pain had entered his heart, was burning there in helpless lava tears, seething in red-hot rage against the unknown abuser. That pain welled up now, as he reflected on her text.

"Hello, I'm back." She stood in the door, eyes downcast, nervously twisting her fingers, embarrassed, insecure. He went to her, silent, took her hands and kissed her fingers, every single one. His eyes and hands softly caressed her arms, and he bent his head to kiss the faded scars, traces of bygone pain, witnesses of her fragile, vulnerable soul, faint silver markings that, if anything, made her only more beautiful to him. He silently prayed that he never had been the cause of any of these, nor ever would be.

Tears welled in her eyes, and she leaned against him. At that moment, she was a small, wounded child, huddling into a corner in fright and rolling up into a little ball. Her eyes were raindrops on small, broken petals, two round, unshed tears of broken trust.

There and then, as he held them with his gaze, Boromir vowed to himself what had been in his heart all along: Never would he knowingly violate her in any way, physically or mentally, never force anything upon her that she did not accept willingly, never press her to give what she did not choose to give on her own. Silently and ruefully, he did penance for any instance where he had done that unwittingly, where it must have seemed like that to her. Whenever he would be tempted to feel bitter at the thought of missing out on something, he would only have to recall her look, just now, and his heart would melt in tenderness. He would wait as long as it took, and if it took forever – well, then it took forever.

Their love was so rich, so pure, so beautiful. Never would he want to endanger it, to drag it down. Just to feel the softness of her skin against his, or smell the fragrance of her hair when they bent together over a book and a few stray strands lightly touched his cheek like feathers – to him these things were wonders that brought tears to his eyes. He had never felt that way about anyone before. Was it the singularity of their relationship, or the way Galathorn had transformed and was still transforming his ability to love?

'_Both, I guess_,' he pondered. '_When you really love, you see that person through different eyes. You see them through the eyes of Ilúvatar. You see their infinite beauty, and you feel like the greatest treasure has been entrusted to you if they look at you with trust in their eyes, if they nestle against your shoulder. If they smile at you, you are the most blessed person on this earth, and you know you are so just for having been granted the privilege of knowing them. You see their infinite worth, and you know they are worth dying for. And you would do it. You would give your life for them if necessary. Not because you do not value your life, but because you have seen them through Galathorn's eyes. Through the eyes of Love.'_

'_To love and to cherish._' Never before had he really understood those words. Even now he had just started to glimpse the vast infinity behind them. Nothing on earth was more blessed than to love. Boromir closed his eyes. "Thank you," he whispered. Then, "I love you," he said.


	3. Secrets

**Part II: Secrets**

Ninglor tossed and turned in her bed. As so often, she had slept for three or four hours, and then sleep eluded her completely. Her nerves were strung to the breaking point, her head was aching and every part of her body felt sore. Images crowded in on her, overwhelmed her, smothered her. With a stifled moan she got up, switched the light on and cast her eyes around the room in an effort to focus her attention on anything but the nightmare scenes and thoughts in her head.

She glanced at Boromir for a moment, then quickly looked away. At such moments she could not stand the sight of him, sound asleep, ignorant of her suffering. At such moments she could not stand the sight of any man.

Boromir could not help her. Once she had thought he could, tried to make him understand by writing that story of the mirror, placing it in his way. They had talked about it, eventually, but he could not see what was in the mirror, and she had no words to describe it. It left her mute, speechless, and he could not read it from her eyes. How could he understand, not having been through her experiences? How could he understand, with her not even having told him all? How on earth could he ever understand, him being a man? She had no-one who fully understood. At bottom she was always, inconsolably, unalterably alone.

Torn inside with anger, hatred, the desire to sleep, the inability to do so, she paced the room and silently recited snatches of songs, anything to get her mind under control. She did not want to think of the razor blade in her drawer and what she used to do with it. She did not want to fall prey to that addiction again. _'I'm going mad,'_ she thought. _'I'm going mad if I don't do it. I'm going mad anyway. Oh God, I can't stand this any longer!'_

Too worn out for weeping, she sank on her bed and simply sat there while the minutes ticked by. All agitation had resolved itself into detached resignation. She felt unreal, surreal, as if all that existed was this darkness, this vacuum, this stillness broken only by the ticking of the clock. '_Ticking on forever and ever into the meaningless void of time and space. Unreal. Anything could happen and I would not even think it strange._'

She did not know for how long she had been sitting there, when suddenly she felt someone softly stroke her hair, the way her mother used to do when she was a little child. She heard a whisper, "Do you know me?" Slowly she lifted her eyes, grey-green seas of sorrow, fringed by lashes now bedewed with tears, sparkling raindrops on blades of grass.

Then she looked down again. "I don't know. You are the one I once hoped was real," she said in a low voice. "The one I sometimes wish would hold me, and not leave me so alone. The one I sometimes wish…" Her voice trailed off.

She felt warm, sensitive fingers under her chin, and her head was gently lifted.

"Do not fear. Look at me. What do you see?"

She had no name for it. Once she would have called it love, but that word had become tainted. Acceptance. But that word was too indifferent. Grace. But that did not enter her mind, was too abstract. Light – but there was also the mysterious velvety darkness of a sheltering intimacy, the rich star-clad cloak of a night bereft of danger. Beauty – but combined with a strength of suffering transcended, a radiance of loveliness that, even scarred, embodied more of immaculate splendour than the greatest masterpiece of art could excite. Compassion, in its purest sense, its furthest extreme – not the on-looking pity that dimly imagines the torture, but a heart that offers itself as the sanctuary for the tears of the beloved, where they merge with the tears of blood shed by the lover himself.

"Will you try to trust me?" His voice sounded vulnerable, almost forlorn, and his eyes held an immense sadness. She knew he placed himself at her disposal, to accept or reject, to have or refuse, and that he laid his soul bare before her. She knew his whole being was so much yearning to bed her in roses, to make her his, that her refusal would stab him to the heart; and yet it could not change or diminish his love in any way. There was no pressure, no emotional blackmailing, no attempts at creating a bad conscience. Simply his eyes, more intense than the sun, more constant than the mountains, more vulnerable than the eyes of a baby. His eyes, waiting patiently for her answer, which need not be given now.

This, more than anything, won her. "Yes. Yes, I will try – I'll try, but – please help me."


	4. Facing the Mirror

**Part III: ****Facing the Mirror**

"Beloved, let us look into the mirror."

What?!? She must have misunderstood!

"So far it has always taken you by surprise. Let's turn that around. Let us take it by surprise."

She turned away from Galathorn, and her voice grew cold and distant. "No. I don't want to."

"Beloved," she heard a whisper close to her ear. "Let me carry you to the place of forgiveness."

"Forgiveness?!?" She looked away from him, somewhere at the wall, as she spat out the word, secluded herself in anger and disappointment. To forgive – that! What would he expect of her next? She had thought he cared about her – and now, he was so concerned about THEM to wheedle her into acting as if nothing had happened? She felt betrayed.

"Ninglor. Dearest." Something in his voice, a note of vulnerability which she would least have expected, made her look at him reluctantly. His eyes, deep and dark, held hers with an intensity that took her breath away.

"YOU are the one I care about. You are my first and foremost concern. My first and foremost love. You are the one I will carry through waters … For your sake, I would give kingdoms and princes … And for your sake alone I would have you take hold of forgiveness."

There was a long silence. Only tears rolled from her eyes, dark and heavy, searing her cheeks. Finally, she looked up, pulled a face and tied to smile, mustering all her courage. "If you go with me, I'll try it."

The tenderness in his look enveloped her, enfolded her like a mantle. Suddenly she felt safe, ready to meet whatever demons were to issue from that mirror. She would face them this time, it would be different this time, for He was with her this time.

"I will hold your hand and never let go. I know you will have victory. I promise you my healing."

Her smile was still insecure, but this time sincere. Without realizing, she grasped his hand firmly, so firmly that her fingernails dug into his palms. "Well, then, let's get it over with."


End file.
